Down in The Bottomlands (and Other Places)

by Harry Turtledove

  “Ivor MacSvensson somehow found out, and threatened to put me in jail if I didn’t use my mental powers to start your wheel of if going until it had made a half-turn, and then stop it. With another man’s mind in the bishop’s body, it ought to be easy to prove the bishop daft; in any event his inflowing would be destroyed. But as you know, it didn’t work out quite that way. You seemingly aren’t in anybody’s custody. So you’ll have to do something to get me out.”

  Park leaned forward and fixed Noggle with the bishop’s fish-pale eyes. He said harshly: “You know, Noggle, I admire you. For a guy who robs his hospital, and then to get out of it goes and starts fourteen men’s minds spinning around, ruining their lives and maybe driving some of them crazy or to self-killing, you have more gall than a barn rat. You sit there and tell me, one of your victims, that I’ll have to do something to get you out. Why, damn your lousy little soul, if you ever do get out I’ll give you a case of lumps that’ll make you think somebody dropped a mountain on you!”

  Noggle paled a bit. “Then — then you weren’t a churchman in your own world?”

  “Hell, no! My business was putting lice like you in jail. And I still ock to be able to do that here, with what you so kindly told me just now.”

  Noggle swallowed as this sank in. “But — you promised-”

  Park laughed unpleasantly. “Sure I did. I never let a little thing like a promise to a crook keep me awake nights.”

  “But you want to get back, don’t you? And I’m the only one who can send you back, and you’ll have to get me out of here before I can do anything-”

  “There is that,” said Park thoughtfully. “But I don’t know. Maybe I’ll like it here when I get used to it. I can always have the fun of coming around here every sixth day and giving you the horse-laugh.”

  “You’re — a devil!”

  Park laughed again. “Thanks. You thought you’d get some poor bewildered dimwit in Scoglund’s body, didn’t you? Well, you’ll learn just how wrong you were.” He stood up. “I’ll let you stay here a while more as Dr. Borup’s prize looney. Maybe when you’ve been taken down a peg we can talk business. Meanwhile, you might form a club with those other five guys on your wheel. You could leave notes around for each other to find. So long, Dr. Svengali!”

  Ten minutes later Park was in Borup’s office, with a bland episcopal smile on his face. He asked Borup, apropos of nothing in particular, a lot of questions about the rules involving commitment and release of inmates.

  “Nay,” said Edwy Borup firmly. “We could — uh — parole a patient in your care only if he were rick most of the time. Those that are wrong most of the time, like poor Dr. Noggle, have to stay here.”

  It was all very definite. But Park had known lots of people who were just as definite until pressure was brought to bear on them from the right quarter.

  The nearer the Sunday service came, the colder became Allister Park’s feet. Which, for such an aggressive, selfconfident man, was peculiar. But when he thought of all the little details, the kneeling and getting up again, the facing this way and that… He telephoned Cooley at the cathedral. He had, he said, a cold, and would Cooley handle everything but the sermon? “Surely, Hallow, surely. The Lord will see to it that you’re fully restored soon, I hope. I’ll say a special prayer for you…”

  It was also time, Park thought, to take Monkey-face into his confidence. He told him all, whereat Dunedin’s eyes grew very large. “Now, old boy,” said Park briskly, “if you ever want to get your master back into his own body, you’ll have to help me out. For instance, here’s that damned sermon. I’m going to read it, and you’ll correct my pronunciation and gestures.”

  Sunday afternoon, Park returned wearily to the bishop’s house. The sermon had gone off easily enough; but then he’d had to greet hundreds of people he didn’t know, as if they were old friends. And he’d had to parry scores of questions about his absence. He had, he thought, earned a drink.

  “A highball?” asked Dunedin. “What’s that?”

  Park explained. Dunedin looked positively shocked. “But Thane P — I mean Hallow, isn’t it bad for your insides to drink such cold stuff?”

  “Never mind my insides! I’ll — hullo, who’s that?”

  Dunedin answered the doorbell, and reported that a Th. Figgis wanted to see the bishop. Park said to show him in. There was something familiar about that name. The man himself was tall, angular, and grim-looking. As soon as Dunedin had gone, he leaned forward and hissed dramatically: “I’ve got you now, Bishop Scoglund! What are you going to do about it?”

  “What am I going to do about what?”

  “My wife!”

  “What about your wife?”

  “You know well enough. You went up to my rooms last Tuesday, while I was away, and came down again Wednesday.”

  “Don’t be an ass,” said Park. “I’ve never been in your rooms in my life, and I’ve never met your wife.”

  “Oh, yes? Don’t try to fool me, you wolf in priest’s clothing! I’ve got witnesses. By God, I’ll fix you, you seducer!”

  “Oh, that!” Park grinned, and explained his ladder-and-rope procedure.

  “Think I believe that?” sneered Figgis. “If you weren’t a priest I’d challenge you and cut your liver out and eat it. As it is, I can make things so hot for you-”

  “Now, now,” interrupted Park, “Be reasonable. I’m sure we can come to an understanding-”

  “Trying to bribe me, huh?”

  “I wouldn’t put it just that way.”

  “So you think you can buy my honor, do you? Well, what’s your offer?”

  Park sighed. “I thought so. Just another goddam blackmailer. Get out, louse!”

  “But aren’t you going to-”

  Park jumped up, spun Figgis around, and marched him toward the door. “Out, I said! If you think you can get away with spreading your little scandal around, go to it. You’ll learn that you aren’t the only one who knows things about other people.” Figgis tried to wriggle loose. Park kicked him into submission, and sent him staggering down the front steps with a final shove.

  Dunedin looked awedly at this formidable creature into which his master had been metamorphosed. “Do you really know something to keep him quiet, Hallow?”

  “Nope. But my experience is that most men of his age have something they’d rather not have known. Anyway, you’ve got to take a strong line with these blackmailers, or they’ll raise no end of hell. Of course, my son, we hope the good Lord will show our erring brother the folly of his sinful ways, don’t we?” Park winked.

  Being a bishop entailed much more than putting on a one-hour performance at the cathedral every Sunday, as Park soon learned. But he transacted as much of his episcopal business as he could at home, and put the rest onto Cooley. He didn’t yet feel that his impersonation was good enough to submit to close-range examination by his swarm of subordinates.

  While he was planning his next step, an accident unexpectedly opened the way for him. He had just settled himself in the Isleif Street apartment the evening of Tuesday April 26th, when a young man rang his doorbell. It took about six seconds to diagnose the young man as a fledgling lawyer getting a start on a political career as a precinct worker.

  “No,” said Park, “I won’t sign your petition to nominate Thane Hammar, because I don’t know him. I’ve just moved here from Dakotia. But I’d like to come around to the clubhouse and meet the boys.”

  The young man glowed. “Why don’t you? There’s a meeting of the precinct workers tomorrow night, and voters are always welcome.”

  The clubhouse walls were covered with phoney Viking shields and weapons. “Who’s he?” Park asked his young lawyer through the haze of smoke. “He” was a florid man to whom several were paying obsequious attention.

  “That’s Trigvy Darling, Brahtz’s parasite.” Park caught a note of dislike, and added it to the new card in his mental index file. Brahtz was a Diamond thingman from a western province, the lea
der of the squirearchy. In this somewhat naive culture, a gentleman had to demonstrate his financial standing by supporting a flock of idle friends, or deputy gentlemen. The name of the parasite was not merely accurate, but was accepted by these hangers-on without any feeling of derogation.

  Through the haze wove an unpleasantly familiar angular figure. Park’s grip on the edge of the table automatically tightened. “Haw, Morrow,” said Figgis, and looked at Park. “Haven’t I met you somewhere?”

  “Maybe,” said Park. “Ever live in Dakotia?”

  Morrow, the young lawyer, introduced Park as Park. Park fervently hoped his disguise was thick enough. Figgis acknowledged the introduction, but continued to shoot uneasy little glances at Park. “I could swear-” he said. Just then the meeting was called. Although it would have driven a lot of people to suicide from boredom, Park enjoyed the interplay of personalities, the quick fencing with parliamentary rules by various factions. These rules differed from those he was used to, being derived from those of the ancient Icelandic Thing instead of the English Parliament. But the idea was the same. The local members wanted to throw a party for the voters of the hide (district). A well-knit minority led by the parasite Darling wanted to save the money for contribution to the national war chest.

  Park waited until the question was just about to be put to a vote, then snapped his fingers for the chairman’s attention. The chairman, an elderly dodderer, recognized him.

  “My friends,” said Park, lurching to his feet, “of course I don’t know that I really ock to say anything, being just a new incomer from the wilds of Dakotia. But I’ve always voted Diamond, and so did my father and his father before him, and so on back as far as there was any Diamond Party. So I think I can claim as solid a party membership as some folks who live in New Belfast three months out of the year, and spend the rest of their time upholding the monetary repute of certain honorable country thanes.” Park, with satisfaction, saw Darling jerk his tomato-colored face around, and heard a few snickers. “Though,” he continued, “taking the healthy skin you get from country life, I don’t know but what I envy such people.” (More snickers.) “Now it seems to me that…”

  Twenty minutes later the party had been voted: Park was the chairman (since he alone seemed really anxious to assume responsibility); and Trigvy Darling, at whose expense Park had acquired a frothy popularity by his jibes, had turned from vermillion to magenta.

  After the meeting, Park found himself in a group of people including the chairman and Figgis. Figgis was saying something about that scoundrel Scoglund, when his eye caught Park’s. He grinned his slightly sepulchral grin. “I know now why I thock I’d met you! You remind me of the bishop!”

  “Know him?”

  “I met him once. Say, Dutt,” (this was to the aged chairman) “what date’s set for your withdrawal?”

  “Next meeting,” quavered the ancient one. “Ah, here is our crown prince, heh, heh!” Darling, his face back to normal tomato-color, advanced. “Do you ken Thane Park?”

  “I ken him well enough,” growled Darling with the look of one who has found a cockroach in his ice cream. “It seems to me, Thane Dutt, that part of a chairman’s duty is to stop use of personalities on the part of speakers.”

  “You can always plead point of personal privilege, heh, heh.”

  Darling did something in his throat that was not quite articulate speech. Figgis murmured: “He knows the boys would laugh him down if he tried it.”

  “Yeah?” said Darling. “We’ll see about that when I’m chairman.” He stalked off.

  Park wasted no time in exploiting his new job. Knowing that Ivor MacSvensson was due back in New Belfast the next day, he went around — as Allister Park — to the law office used by the boss as a front for his activities. The boss was already in, but the outer office was jammed with favor seekers. Park, instead of preparing to spend the morning awaiting his turn, bribed the office boy to tell him when and where MacSvensson ate his lunch. Then he went to the nearby public library — movies not having been invented in this world — and took his ease until one o’clock.

  Unfortunately, Ivor MacSvensson failed to show up at the restaurant indicated, though Park stretched one tuna-fish lunch out for half an hour. Park cursed the lying office boy. Plain bribery he was hardened to, but he really became indignant when the bribee failed to deliver. So he set about it the hard way. A nearby knick gave him the locations of the five highest-priced restaurants in the neighborhood, and in the third he found his man. He recognized him from the pictures he had studied before starting his search — a big, good — looking fellow with cold blue eyes and prematurely white hair.

  Park marched right up. “Haw, Thane MacSvensson. Bethink you me?”

  MacSvensson looked puzzled for a fraction of a second, but he said smoothly: “Sure, of course I bethink me of you. Your name is — uh-”

  “Allister Park, chairman of the amusement committee of the Tenth Hide,” Park rattled off. “I only met you recently, just before you left.”

  “Sure, of course. I’d know you anywhere — let’s see, Judge Vidolf of Bridget’s Beach wirecalled me this morning; wanted to know if I kenned you. Told him I’d call him back.” He gripped Park’s hand. “Come on, sit down. Sure, of course, any good party worker is a friend of mine. What’s the Tenth Hide doing?”

  Park told of the party. MacSvensson whistled. “Saturday the thirtieth? That’s day after tomorrow.”

  “I can manage it,” said Park. “Maybe you could tell me where I could pick up some sober bartenders.”

  “Sure, of course.” Under Park’s deferential prodding, the boss gave him all the information he needed. MacSvensson finished with the quick, vigorous handshake cultivated by people who have to shake thousands of hands and who don’t want to develop a case of greeter’s cramp. He urged Park to come around and see him again.

  “Especially after that fellow Darling gets the chairmanship of your committee.”

  Park went, grinning a little to himself. He knew just what sort of impression he had made, and could guess how the boss was reacting to it. He’d be glad to get a vigorous, aggressive worker in the organization; at the same time he’d want to keep a close watch on him to see that his power wasn’t undermined.

  Park congratulated himself on having arrived in a world where the political setup had a recognizable likeness to that of his own. In an absolute monarchy, for instance, he’d have a hell of a time learning the particular brand of intrigue necessary to become a king’s favorite. As it was…

  The Bridget’s Beach knicks stood glowering at a safe distance from the throng of picnickers. Although they were anti-MacSvensson, the judges were pro, so what could they do about it if the party violated the ordinances regarding use of the beach? Since Park’s fellow committeemen were by now too sodden with beer to do anything at all, Park was dashing around, clad in a pair of tennis shoes and the absurd particolored belt that constituted the Vinland bathing suit, running everything himself. Everybody seemed to be having a good time-party workers, the more influential of the voters and their families, everybody but a morose knot of Darling amp; followers at one end.

  Near this knot a group of anti-Darlings was setting up a song:

  “Trig Darling, he has a foul temper;

  “Trig Darling’s as red as can be;

  “Oh, nobody here loves Trig Darling,

  “Throw Trigvy out into the sea!

  “Throw-Trig,

  “Throw-Trig,

  “Throw Trigvy out into the sea!”

  Park hurried up to shush them. Things were going fine, and he didn’t want a fight — yet, at any rate. But his efforts were lost in the next stanza:

  “Trig Darling, he has a pot-bellee;

  “Trig Darling’s as mean as can be…”

  At that moment, apparently, a giant hit Allister Park over the head with a Sequoia sempervirens. He reeled a few steps, shook the tears out of his eyes, and faced Trigvy Darling, advancing with large fists cock
ed.

  “Hey,” said Park, “this isn’t-” He brought up his own fists. But Darling, instead of trying to hit him again, faced him for three seconds and then spat at him.

  Park glanced at the drop of saliva trickling down his chest. So did everyone else. One of Darling’s friends asked:

  “Do you make that a challenge, Trig?”

  “Yes!” boomed the parasite.

  Park didn’t really catch on to what was coming until he was surrounded by his own party. He and Darling were pushed together until their bare chests were a foot apart. Somebody called the knicks over; these stationed themselves around the couple. Somebody else produced a long leather belt, which he fastened around the middies of both men at once, so they could not move farther apart. Darling, his red face expressionless, grabbed Park’s right wrist with his left hand, and held out his own right forearm, evidently expecting Park to do the same.

  It was not until a big sheath-knife was pressed into each man’s right hand that Park knew he was in a duel. Somehow he had missed this phase of Vinland custom in his reading.

  Park wondered frantically whether his mustache would come off in the struggle. One knick stepped up and said:

  “You know the rules: no kicking, biting, butting, or scratching. Penalty for a foul is one free stab. Ready?”

  “Yes,” said Darling. “Yes,” said Park, with more confidence than he felt.

  “Go,” said the policeman.

  Park felt an instant surge of his opponent’s muscles. Darling had plenty of these under the fat. If he’d only had longer to train the bishop’s body… Darling wrenched his wrist loose from Park’s grip, threw a leg around one of Park’s to trip him, and brought his fist down in a lightning overhand stab.

  It was too successful. Park’s leg went out from under him and he landed with a thump on his back, dragging Darling down on top of him. Darling drove his knife up to the hilt in the sand. When he jerked it up for another stab, Park miraculously caught his wrist again. A heave, and Darling toppled onto the sand beside him. For seconds they strained and panted, a tangle of limbs.